


J'accuse

by romanticalgirl



Category: Clue (1985)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is afoot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	J'accuse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elegant_graffiti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegant_graffiti/gifts).



She’s not sure why she does it. Perhaps she doesn’t have much choice. It’s not like she has much else left in her life, beyond the physicist of the year award banquet and community service and the weekly luncheon with Mrs. Peacock and Miss Scarlett. They still stick with their pseudonyms, and everyone’s happier for it. Or, well, if not happier, then less embarrassed.

She’s been married twice more and had three affairs, and her life simply feels empty. At least when Boddy or Wadsworth or whatever his name is was blackmailing her, she had a purpose. One that involved her wanting to rip his heart out and feed it to something with very large teeth, but a purpose nonetheless. Maybe that’s why she’s drawn here to this lurking gray building that can’t help but remind her of another large edifice she faced on a dark and stormy night.

The dogs bark in the distance and lightning flashes, and she can’t help but jump, raindrops fluttering all around the edges of her umbrella. The guard at the gate is watching her and she presses her lips together to make sure they’re both bathed in red before starting toward the thick, oily, yellow glow of the lamps surrounding his post.

“Name?”

She looks him over, the flat gray of his uniform and the coldness of his expression. She’d pulled strings to get on the list he has affixed to his clipboard. Very expensive, very unhappy strings. “Mrs. White.”

He glances down at the list and then back up at her. She’s used to the looks. What did he say so long ago now? Oh yes. Pale and tragic. It’s a good look for her. She enjoys men falling over themselves to make sure she’s all right. Having them underestimate her has never gone wrong in the past. “Mrs. White.”

“That’s right. Mrs. White.” Her mouth quirks at the rhyme, and she half expects him to explain her plight or perhaps get into a fight, but instead he nods and steps back, pressing a button that makes a loud noise, swinging the large, metal gates open.

“Ma’am.” He doffs his hat, as if he’s a gentleman, nodding as well. “Have a good night.”

**

There’s some discussion when she comes in and she pretends not to hear it. They’re required her to leave her umbrella in an outside room, and she’s rather worried about their luck, given the number of times they’ve opened and closed it to make sure it’s not any kind of contraband. They pass a large paddle in front and behind her, the strange whizzing noises it makes loud in the loaded silence. They’re both armed, both male, both large. “She’s clean.”

Her eyes widen at the suggestion that she might be otherwise, until she glances over and sees a man in the next clear stall getting patted down. There are worse fates.

The guard jerks his head and another buzzer goes off. “Let her through.”

Gates grind back, bars clinking in a rhythmic pattern and she steps through, waiting for them to open the large metal door. It swings open silently, and she wrinkles her nose at the smell. There are tables with scratched and scored surfaces and surly faced men who look at her like the tight black dress she’s wearing is see-through. She ignores them as best she can, paying no mind to the high spots of red burning on her cheeks, as she looks around the room.

He’s in the far corner, well away from all of the rest of the prisoners. Where the rest look mean and unshaven, he’s clean and fresh, his skin tinged with the ruddiness of cold water and his hair wildly curly, not slicked down neatly. Her heels tap against the linoleum as she walks, and she feels more and more eyes on her the further into the room she goes. The chair across from him is wood and rigid, but she sits carefully and crosses her legs.

“Mrs. White.”

“Wadsworth.”

“Wadsworth is dead.” His accent is slightly clipped, changed by close association with the local dialects of his co-prisoners. “Surely you remember that clearly enough.”

“I don’t think forgetting that night would be possible.” She shifts in her chair and lays her gloves on the table, smoothing them with her red-tipped fingers. “My lawyer informed me that you’ll be released next month.”

“Your lawyer knows more than I do, I’m sure.”

“As am I.” She gives him a flat smile and blinks her dark eyelashes. “Nevertheless, you will be released and, given that your assets were seized when you were arrested, you’ll need some assistance.”

He’s quiet for a moment, longer than it takes him to realize what she’s saying, she knows. She can practically see the cogs and gears in his head, spinning and working, trying to understand. “Why would you help me?”

“A myriad of reasons, not the least of which is so that I know what you’re up to.” She uncrosses then recrosses her legs, noting him watching the movement, eyes appreciative. “None of us are keen to end up where we were before once you’re loosed into the world again.”

“My informants and spies are dead. You know my name. My face. There’s no conceivable way I could do again what I did to all of you.”

“Until you found new informants. New spies.”

“Surely the sins you were being punished for have all been wiped away. And I find it hard to believe you’d all be so foolish as to find new ones to be discovered.”

“Do you?” She frowns then stops quickly, unwilling to let the furrows in her brow set. “Then perhaps, Wadsworth, you’re not as clever as I thought you were.”

**

Her car is outside the prison when he walks out, wearing clothes that no longer fit him the way they should. Her driver is standing beside the back door on the passenger’s side and he can see the hint of her smoke curling out of the cracked window on the opposite side. He walks up to the car, noting the polished shine and the very distinct sheen of wealth. Whatever he’d accomplished before, he obviously hadn’t pushed hard enough.

The driver opens the door for him, his movements fluid and easy, stepping back and allowing him in the car. The interior is rich leather and he can smell the cost of it. She taps the cigarette holder against the ashtray and looks him over. “You cleaned up better than I expected after that.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Miss Scarlett is your madam.” She takes another drag and blows the smoke at him. “You’ll stay at my house.”

“You want me to be alone together with you?”

“Do you have any other options? Besides, the way I see it, you’re just as dangerous as I am.” She nods to the driver as he settles into his seat behind the wheel. “Home, Roderick.”

The drive takes several hours, the car winding on back roads and through farmlands that seem to stretch out forever. There’s a newspaper on the seat between them, a sharp divide and seemingly out of place with the rest of the expensive interior. He expects glossy magazines, but the smeared ink on the gray-white paper is what he gets, and he wonders if her fingers are stained black beneath her white gloves. “I must admit, Mrs. White, that I’m not sure I understand why you’re doing this, or what benefit you get from it.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough, Wadsworth.” She slips another cigarette in her holder and nods toward the panel between them against the front seats. He opens a small drawer to find matches and lights one with a quick flick of his wrist, setting the paper on fire, curls of smoke and the smolder of orange lighting up the car.

He rolls down his window, closing his eyes and inhaling the unspoiled air, ripe with grasses and summer flowers. He can feel her watching him, but he ignores her for the view. He doesn’t need to see her to remember her perfect skin, flawless and powder pale, her red lips and dangerous eyes. She’s lingered with him longer than the others, stuck in his memory and taunted him. Perhaps it’s only fitting that she be here now, a threat to the freedom he’s recently won. And yet, as threats go, he finds her far more interesting than anything else on the horizon.

The house is set back on a large hill, sloped neatly and landscaped with a winding driveway. It takes him a moment to recognize it, but once he does, he can’t help but stare at her. “Is this…”

“I’ve had it renovated, but yes.” She turns her head and smiles at him, her teeth bright against the red, and he can’t help but imagine the slathering maw of a beast or the sharp fangs of a vampire. “Welcome to Boddy Mansion.”

“How…”

“It’s amazing what three murders will do to the price of property.” Her driver parks the car and she looks at him, her gaze solid and cunning. He can’t help but remember that, of the three murders, she was the one who actually used her hands, squeezed death from Yvette’s throat. He starts slightly as Rochester opens her door, and her smile makes it clear that his movement didn’t go unnoticed.

He lets himself out of the car, surprised not to hear the sound of dogs. Of course, she has no reason to keep him from leaving. Even if he was inclined to follow the wise and sane course and do so, she no doubt knows that he’s far too curious. They were all ruthless and cunning and clever, but it’s clear that she is the one most like him. He knew it that night. He’s not about to forget it now.

The butler opens the door smoothly and she breezes past him into the house. “This is Mr. Wadsworth, Timothy.”

Timothy nods and instinct and breeding force him to nod back, trying not to show his mounting nervousness. “Mr. Wadsworth, may I take your bags?”

“That won’t be necessary, Timothy. I have nothing more than this, and I’m able to handle it.”

“Nonsense, sir. It is my duty, and as is true of any good butler, my sole life’s purpose is to perform said duty.” He eases the bag out of his hand and into his own with impressive skill. “The orange bedroom is prepared, Ma’am.”

“That will be perfect. Timothy will show you to your room.”

He follows behind Timothy, going up the stairs to the second floor and down one of the long hallways. The room, despite its name, is furnished in wood with gray linens. The setting sun resolves the mystery, however, bathing everything in an orange glow. Timothy sets his meager belongings on the table at the foot of the bed before opening the armoire.

“Your accent.”

“Yes, Mr. Wadsworth?”

He shakes his head. “It just seems familiar.”

“Dublin. By way of Boston.”

“Have you worked here long?”

“No, sir. I’ve been with Mrs. White for a month.”

“I see.”

Timothy opens the bag and begins hanging his clothes among other, newer garments. “Mrs. White took the liberty of getting you a few things, sir.”

“So I see.”

“Let me know if anything is not to your liking.” He finishes hanging his last pair of slacks and closes the hinged doors. “Mrs. White will be waiting for you downstairs when you’re ready sir, but you’re to take as much time as you need.”

He nods, waiting until Timothy has retired from the room to take a closer look: Good, quality and expertly tailored clothes. He lays out a new suit and goes into the bathroom, washing his face and hands before changing. The suit fits him perfectly and he has to smile. Mrs. White is one he should never underestimate. He’ll do well to remember that. Moving into the hall, he hears the low murmur of voices, the sound of the hired help. He stands at the railing and looks down at the parquet floor. “What game are you playing, Mrs. White?”

**

A quick tour of the house shows him two maids as well as Timothy, Rochester and, presumably, the cook. He hears the maids talk of a gardener. Six people with access to the house besides himself and Mrs. White, all of them intent on their jobs. He steers clear of them once he’s identified them; exploring the rest of the house and remembering his last visit here, the last dinner party he attended.

“You’ll notice the chandelier.” She startles him, surprisingly silent in her approach. “There were pictures, of course, and we were able to salvage most of the original crystals.”

He looks up at the tiers, glistening in the light. “Lovely.”

“Not bulletproof, of course, but what’s the saying about lightning striking twice?”

He nods and then looks up toward the balcony, the two maids disappearing around a corner.

“Darcy and Elinor. Both good girls. They should give you no trouble.”

“Of course.”

“Shall we have a drink in the library?” He nods and follows her, noting the sound of her heels again. Interesting. She leads the way in and settles in one of the chairs, nodding toward a tray with two empty glasses and an unopened bottle of champagne. “Will you do the honors? We’ll toast to your freedom.”

“I hope I won’t have to wait until a dramatic reveal in the lounge before finding out what this is all about.” He pops the cork easily and pours for them both, offering her a glass before sitting across from her.

“I can’t just be a good Samaritan?”

“Given what we know of each other, ma’am? No.” He smiles to take away the sting then sips his champagne.

She laughs and tilts her head in admission. “Fair enough.” Sipping her champagne, she shifts on the chair, crossing her legs. He can’t help but watch, listen to the soft purr of silk on silk. “There are some people that I’ve been watching. Learning about. I find them…interesting.”

“Interesting.” He takes a sip of his champagne and holds it in his mouth, feeling the bubbles burst against his tongue before swallowing. “How so?”

“Their hobbies.” She takes her own drink and meets his gaze evenly. “What people do in their free time can be so telling, don’t you think? More than their work, even. You see their priorities, their loyalties.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s amazing how they get careless, forget about who’s watching.”

“Timothy?”

“Mr. Gray.”

He nods and takes another drink. “The rest?”

“Peach. Umber. Black. Pearl. Rose.” She tilts her head slightly and takes another drink. “I am able to identify all of them by sight and have made sure that there is corresponding help for all involved so that the previous outcome can be averted.”

He raises his glass in a toast. “And my part in all of this?”

“You do what you do best, Wadsworth.”

“Butle, ma’am?”

She stands up as the cook bangs the gong, calling for dinner. He stands as well and proffers his arm. “Whatever you’d like to call it.”

**

She has intimate knowledge of his previous strategy and she points out a few things that aren’t exactly flaws, but could use improvement. He’s amazed at how well they work together, the way they think the same and yet different, her seeing sides he doesn’t, both of them pointing out different aspects. It’s interesting and more fun than he thought it could be and, he has to admit to himself every night, incredibly arousing.

Being in charge, or perhaps knowing him well enough that he can’t hold anything against her, gives her an ease that belies the ice-queen exterior at which she’s so adept. She laughs with him and touches him, her fingers and red nails light on the skin of his wrist, on the cuff of his shirt. It’s distracting and alluring and dangerous. He can see why a series of men fell for her, all reputation as a black widow aside.

It’s worse at night, when her shoes are off and listing drunkenly on the floor, falling over each other, and her silk-clad legs are tucked up beneath her, the hem of her dress pulled taut across her thighs. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he can’t help staring as he rubs his forehead.

“Tired, Wadsworth?”

“It’s been a long day.” He sits up straight and stretches, feeling the pull of tense muscles. “Several long days.”

“I’m keeping you up.” She smiles, the double entendre as lush and ripe as her still-red lips.

“There is a lot of work to be done.”

“Not so much that we can’t call it an early night.” She gets up, padding over to the bar in bare feet, grabbing the decanter and coming back, pouring for them both. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“What do they say?” He picks up his glass, looking at her over the rim.

“It makes Wadsworth a terribly dull boy.” She clinks her glass against his and sits down again, closing her eyes and humming softly as she takes a drink. “And we can’t have that.”

He leans back in his chair and sips his own drink, watching her through heavily lidded eyes. “I think, Mrs. White, that you have something up your sleeve.”

She sits up, reaching back to unzip her dress, letting the sleeves fall off her shoulders and down her arms. “Only one way to find out for sure, Wadsworth.”

He watches her stand and start out of the room, looking back as she reaches the door. He nods once and gets to his feet, following her easily, his fingers catching the light switch and letting the room fade to black.

**

Once the tension is addressed, it doesn’t disappear, but it abates enough that they’re both better able to focus on the job at hand. She compiles records and he sets up the intricate web of letters and threats and drop off points. It’s a far more detailed system than he’d had on his own, and he sees the benefits of her outline. She suggests asking for less to start off with, drawing it out longer. He counters with the argument of brevity and expanding their victim base. They debate what will cause people to run to the police no matter what and eventually they settle somewhere in-between, a prospective client list for the future and the first set of demands.

The house is ready and the plan is set. He looks down at her from where they’re stretched out on her bed, her black negligee clinging to the pale white of her curves. “There is one more thing we should do.”

“I’m already ahead of you,” she assures him. “We have an appointment for nine.”

“Is there anything you haven’t thought of?”

“How I’ll dispose of you in the end.”

He laughs and reaches across her, turning out the light before he kisses her, holding her to the bed. “Good. Keep it that way.”

**

The small chapel is quiet, almost empty save for Rochester, Darcy and Elinor and two of the ladies of the Parish. The parson looks around the room; nodding and smiling as he clears his throat, letting his voice fill the room. “Ladies and gentleman, it is my pleasure to present to you, the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Neville Edward Boddy.”

She rises up on her toes and meets his kiss with one of her own. She is, somewhat surprisingly, dressed entirely in her namesake. “Shall we, Mrs. White?”

Ignoring the parson’s confused look, she slips her hand onto his arm and squeezes lightly. “Most definitely, Wadsworth. Let the games begin.”


End file.
